Progress Reports, Wet Paint & Picture Day

Already three weeks into the school year, and once again, I find myself woefully behind.

Yep, behind as in progress reports are due Monday, and I have a book bag full of 44 or so color coordinated folders screaming for my politically incorrect red pen. This, of course, doesn’t even begin to include those yearbook pages that need my attention, the chapter one worksheets waiting for a good once over or those half-finished handouts I need to complete for Monday.

I get exhausted just thinking about those kind of things. (And gollygeewillikers, we all know how I feel about things.)

All of this rather pales in comparison to my upcoming Friday. Normally, I’m rather fond of Fridays. But not this one. No siree, Missy. Batten down the hatches. Sound the alarm. Send out the cavalry. This particular Friday is The Day. The dreaded School Picture Day. This particular day is enough to make one set one’s hair on fire and run screaming from the building.

In the span of one day, we expect four photographers to shoot roughly 1,700 kiddos and make all the kiddos and teachers look fabulous without annoying or irritating the English teachers on campus.

I even spent hours making up a handy, dandy “appointment” schedule, noting what teacher needs to bring what class at what time. I’m about 99.9 percent sure my nifty schedule will serve a more useful purpose on the bottom of someone’s bird cage.

The yearbook staff also plastered posters around the school to mark The Day. One of the signs promptly fell down which wouldn’t have been a problem except the paint hadn’t dried. And that probably wouldn’t have been a problem except the offending sign with its offending wet paint had, shall we say, a tad bit of paint transfer onto the pants of one of our nifty assistant principals.

I sincerely hope all of that isn’t a sign of bad things to come. (See, there are those darn tootin’ things again.)

The only good thing about my upcoming Friday is that I usually set aside Fridays as my “Starbucks Day” where I reward myself one nonfat, three raw sugar latte. This bit of extravagance serves as my reward for surviving the week without calling anyone a Big Fat Stupid…

Maybe I just need to hook up an espresso IV for the day and hope for the best. Something tells me I’ll be lucky indeed if my counter on the right doesn’t stop and the halls don’t reverberate with, “Why are you such a big fat…”